


In the Details

by Miya_Morana



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:10:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miya_Morana/pseuds/Miya_Morana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were people scattered around the room, strangers, all busy talking to each others, whispering, their voices soft as a gentle breeze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Details

**Author's Note:**

> A very short piece I wrote for an exercise on descriptive narrative a few years ago, for a class.

I entered the living-room slowly, still half asleep. The sensation of the soft carpet gently caressing my naked feet distracted me for a second. When I finally looked around me, I realised I wasn’t alone. There were people scattered around the room, strangers, all busy talking to each others, whispering, their voices soft as a gentle breeze. Some of them were lounging in the red leather sofa, leaning against the big oak bookshelf or sitting cross-legged on the gorgeous golden Persian carpet – my carpet!

Someone had turned on the music and La Callas’s beautiful voice hung in the air. I absentmindedly recognized Verdi’s tragic Tosca as I picked up the sweet smell of blueberry pie baking in the oven. My mouth started to water against my will while I failed to feel scared. I should have, I knew that none of this was normal, but for some reason I felt at ease in my little silk blue nightgown amongst complete strangers. A wave of warmth tingled on my pale skin and somehow I knew these people belonged there.

I looked more closely at the young man sitting on a cushion on the wooden floor, his back pressed against the white wall. He had taken my favourite book out and was intently reading it. His long, dark fingers were gently brushing against Othello’s creamy cover. His curly black hair caressed the soft skin of his delicate neck but did not fall over his wonderful eyes, two emeralds of a surprising green, magnificent against his dark complexion. He was wearing a sleeveless tunic the colour of spring grass, with golden embroidery around the neck, and matching trousers. His naked feet laid flat against the carpet, his toes moving now and then with the music that still filled the room.

All of a sudden, he lifted his head from Shakespeare’s play and our eyes met. It is only then that I realised I knew him, that I had seen him a hundred times. In my dreams.

Maria Callas’s voice grew higher as he softly smiled at me, and I felt my lips form an answering grin. Somebody had turned the music louder, for the diva’s high-pitched voice rang in my ears, almost hurting. But it wasn’t her voice anymore, it was the annoyingly loud sound of my alarm clock. As I got up, I wandered if, in my dreams, I would one day be able to speak to the Man in Green and hear his voice in return.


End file.
